I miss you
by sulkingwithsherlock
Summary: John goes back to Afghanistan. Sherlock isn't sure how long he can take it.


**A/N: I wrote this before series two came out, so I just slipped in a few things to bring it up to date, sorry about that.**

June eighth

I walk through his room again. The carpet nearly hurts my bare feet. It hasn't been cleaned for so long. Five weeks, three days, and ten hours. I've taken to sleeping here, except the nights when I can't stand his smell. We decided ages ago that we'd sleep in my room, but I just can't. All of his things are there. I can't look at them anymore.

We thought one day we would adopt, and they could sleep here, in his room. That seems so far away right now. Almost like a dream, just a hazy thought that I'm bound to wake up from. Why did he have to go to Afghanistan? He promised he won't be gone for too long. A year, maybe two. And now, at just over five weeks, it doesn't seem like something I'll live through.

I don't leave his room. The silence in the flat is enough to drive me to tears. The sight of his laptop, sitting on his end of the sofa. Untouched. At least in his room I have his smell.

June seventeenth

The flat feels so empty right now. I've looked through all of John's photos. I saw some of when he was a child. He hasn't changed much. He's got the same eyes. The same smile. He looks back at me, the blue eyes of a child both breaking my heart, and welling it at the same time.

There are a lot of pictures in this album. John with his mother, with Harry, with various girlfriends. I know I shouldn't be jealous of them, but I don't want to share him.

I move to the next photo album he's kept. It never seemed like him to put together something like this. It doesn't matter though; it's given me something to do. I trace the cover with my fingers; it's got "Sherlock" Written across it in his handwriting. It makes my heart leap into my neck.

There are some of my case files here. Pictures of corpses we searched over. Newspaper clippings. Suspect files. Some might say it's grotesque that he saved this. I think it's nice. Most couples have picnics and roses, John and I have my work.

The next page is all pictures of me. From when I was younger, to candid shots he'd take while we were out, then there are the few I let him take. Ages of him trying to take a photo of me while I was focusing on whatever I had under the microscope, resisting and shouting about how it was a distraction, until I finally gave in and let him photograph freely.

There were only a handful of pictures. Some of me by the counter, staring at evidence, some where I'm laying on the sofa, thinking. And one of the both of us, Harry insisted we take one, and it stings the moment I see it.

I know the next set is our wedding photos. I'm terrified to look at them, but I will anyway.

The first is of John with his sister. He's smiling even though he's obviously angry with her for drinking. That's John, always holding a smile, no matter what.

The next few were generic group shots, some pictures of the entire wedding, us saying vows, our first dance, pictures I didn't even know had been taken.

And then there were the ones of just us two. The ones in front of the chapel, John's arm around my waist, mine on his shoulder. His smile shining to the camera. And I don't expect it, but I begin crying. My chest hurts when I look back to the open photo book, but I can't take my eyes from it. I take the picture out and carry it back to his bedroom; I need it close to me.

July twentieth.

I'm very tired. I can't think. It hurts to breathe in his smell. I want to watch him sleep on my shoulder. I want to take in his short breaths, the nonsense words he says under his breath as he sleeps; I want him in my arms.

But he's not here.

Someone else is in Afghanistan. Watching him sleep, listening to the short bursts of words he's bound to be saying. It's hard to think about who's there, I can't imagine they'd be able to keep away from him. The thought scares me.

I want to know what he's saying. Something about me? No. Something about Harry or his mother is a lot more likely. I wonder if he's having one of his nightmares. He use to dream about the war. But now he's living it, so maybe he'll dream of me. Not likely.

I think of him in his uniform, the loose camouflage against his muscular chest. Caring for patients, removing bullets, stitching up their chests. I'm sure they love it. His warm touch on their skin, his soothing voice telling them it's going to be alright, even though they both know that's not quite true.

I hate that they get him. He would probably say that's selfish, but is it really? I'm a sociopath who fell in love with a soldier, one who loves the battlefield, one who couldn't wait to go back. There are hundreds of army doctors, but there's only one John.

August fourteenth

I have to leave his room. I can't take it right now. I grab one of his jumpers from off of the floor and pull it over my bare chest, it's much too small, the sleeves come up a few inches short, but I love the feeling of the fabric against my skin. It's a warm, familiar feeling, a feeling I've missed so much.

I'm lying on the sofa when someone knocks on the door. I don't want to answer until I hear Lestrade's voice from the hallway, "Just open the door, Sherlock, I know you're in there!" He's got an important case going. I don't want to work.

I sigh, "It's unlocked." I say, just loud enough so that he can hear me.

The door swings open, "Lord Sherlock," He says after taking one look at me, "You look awful- is that _John's _jumper?"

I know I look awful. I haven't had a shower for weeks, I rarely sleep, I've given up on eating- it all sickens me, "Yes." I reply, not moving from my spot on the sofa.

He sighs, "Look I really need you on this case. I'll pay you, and you don't need to stay long- but we're completely stuck."

Cases aren't as fun without John. But I nod anyway. "You go, I'll take a cab."

When I arrive at the crime scene Anderson gives me a nasty look. I really should have changed before I left. He looks as though he's going to say something, but he decides not to. Sally somehow sees this as a challenge, "Hello _freak._" she says as I pass. I notice she didn't make it home last night, stayed up far too late, and drank far too much, but I leave it. I don't want to be out any longer than I have to.

"Where is the body?" I ask her, my voice sounding rough and tired.

"Just over there-" She says, "is this the first time you've left the flat sense John left?" There's something other than resentment in her voice, but I can't tell what it is.

I nod and walk to the body, "What information do we have on the victim?"

"He was found today at 3:25 PM, knifed to death, most valuable possessions taken off the body, and there were no weapons found in the area."

Just by the information given, I had more information than they probably did. The body looked like hell. Dried blood caked all over his skin. My mind flashes to John, laying in some desert, gasping and choking in his own blood. I push the image out. "It was likely his sister." I say, turning from the body.

"How the hell could you have figured that out?" She asks, the anger back in her voice.

I shake my head, "It doesn't matter." I begin to leave the crime scene. Something isn't right. Death- murder usually excites me, but today it hurts. I think of John again. This could be him- in some desert, lying, skin mangled with blood

I don't want to think about that. I turn and leave. I can hear people call after me as I walk away. They don't matter; I just want to be home.

September ninth

His bed is losing its smell. Instead of the homey scent of tea and fabric softener that the sheets had taken to bare, they were beginning to smell like me. I hope that the bed we shared has kept his smell, because I don't know how long I can last without it.

September thirtieth

I tried to go on a walk today, but everyone was so _happy_. I can't stand being around them. Every new smile I saw took me to his upturned lips. His eyes that laughed with him. I love him so much. I think I may go through his photo albums again.

October fourth

Autumn is beautiful this year. Maybe it's been beautiful every year; I never noticed that kind of thing before John. The red in the trees contrasts the blue in the sky so perfectly. I've been sitting at the window looking at it all. It's so sentimental. I wonder if John thinks Afghanistan is beautiful in the fall. He probably does.

I would have gone with him, or gone instead of him. It's wrong but I hope he gets shot, not enough to kill him, I would never be able to handle his death, it would be catastrophic, I just want him to come home. I don't know if that's cruel, or a lot to ask for, but it really is all I want.

October twenty eighth

I can't stop thinking about the first time I slept with him. The night after Jim Moriarty kidnapped him. When we got home, John was so shaken up, so I held him. He whimpered between my arms and wiped his eyes. "You don't need to help me if you don't want to, Sherlock." He said, trying to look to the floor and avoid looking at me.

I held him tighter, "I want to." He pressed his head closer to my chest, his tears starting to slow down. We sat like that for nearly an hour, content just wrapped up in each other's arms. "John?" I asked him through the silence.

"What is it?" He moved his head from my chest to look at me, compassion in his eyes.

"May I kiss you?"

There was something in his expression, something I don't understand to this day, but he whispered "Please." barely audible, but loud enough that I heard him. I put my hand on his cheek and leaned down to push our lips together. It was so glorious. I could have kissed him for hours, and I would have, if he hadn't started to unbutton my shirt, looking up at me slightly as if asking for permission, I nodded at him and he kept going, slowly stripping off my shirt.

I did the same, taking off his clothes until we were both shirtless, "Shall we move to the bedroom?" I asked nervously, but he nodded and followed me. Neither of us hesitated when we'd finally gotten to my room before we were on my bed wearing nothing, bodies pressed together, breathing jagged. And then we finally did it, the bed shook, he screamed, it was better than anything I could have wished for.

"Dear god." John said to me afterward, "You're brilliant."

I smiled, "I could say the same about you."

December fourth

Winter is just starting in London. John really loves the winter, the snow lightly covering the ground, the Christmas lights hung over the city, curling up by the fire. I can't help but think of how he'll be spending Christmas. Probably mending a wounded patient, protecting the people he's around and defending his country.

And I'll be spending it wrapped in his blankets by the fire, feeding it when it begins to die out. I've gotten him a gift, I don't know when I'll be able to give it to him, but I think he'll love it. I take his jumper out of the bag from his favorite shop and start to wrap it. I'm very careful to do it, because I want John to like it, and I want everything to be perfect for him.

December tenth

His mother called today. She says she wants to make sure I'm doing alright. I lied to her and said that I was doing fine, even though we both know it's not true.

December eighteenth

I've recently decided that it is impossible to make it this long without John Watson in my life. I wrote him a letter even though he won't be able to read it for months.

_John,_

_I miss you. It hurts to breathe sometimes because my heart is so heavy. I want you to know that I love you because it is true, and I want you to know that when you're allowed to come home I will be waiting for you. I hope that you're doing well because it wouldn't be fair if the both of us weren't._

_Please come home. Britain doesn't need you, John. I do._

_Love always, Sherlock Holmes_

I don't plan on sending it to him. I throw it into the fire and watch it slowly burn as a spark finally catches. I watch it burn into ash as bits of it fall deeper into the flame. I can't take it anymore, I can't sleep without John, I can't eat, I've only ever left the flat to get the things I can't rely on him for anymore.

I just keep telling myself: _One year. Maybe two. Then John will be home._

December twenty-fifth

"Happy Christmas." I say to the emptiness of the sitting room. "I love you." He can't hear me, but I continue speaking. "I miss you. I miss you so much, I'm being driven insane." It's weird to hear my own voice. I haven't actually spoken since the last time Mrs. Hudson came over to give me my mail. "I miss the taste of your lips and the feeling of your breath on my neck. And your smile, god I miss your smile.

"I stopped going on cases. It's not the same without you. They say it's me that solves all the cases, that you're just my blogger, but that's not true. I can't function anymore."

I sigh. My cheeks are getting wet, but I can't cry. I told him I could keep it together. We both knew it was an outright lie, but I've tried so hard not cry. _Stop crying, dammit. _So, instead I continue talking to John. "Your jumpers are really comfortable. The smell is so familiar. And the feeling of the fabric on the skin of my chest. It makes me think of the rainy nights we'd spent together when we had only just started seeing each other." I make a small whimpering sound, "When you kept your jumper on because it was cold. You were embarrassed. I thought it was cute."

I take a pause before starting again. "What's become of me? You're noble. Standing and fighting for your country. But me.. I'm sitting alone in a flat we use to share talking to someone who can't hear me. Is this what you were like when I'd faked my death?" I shake my head, "No, never mind, that's ridiculous."

December thirty-first

I need alcohol. Or a cigarette. Or cocaine. I can't have the two latter, though, because John would be upset with me. He always cared about my health. I cared about him, too, but I couldn't tell him, so I tried to show him, pressing our bodies as close as possible, putting my lips on his skin. The taste of his skin was so glorious, it's home for me. I need him.

We never kept alcohol in the flat. I think that Harry's drinking turned him off from it, for the most part, at least. He's cute when he's drunk.

January sixth

Lestrade came to visit for my birthday. We watched a movie in silence before he nodded at me and left. It was oddly comforting. Someone to sit with me in silence the way John did.

I miss John. He promised he'd write me as much as possible, maybe his letters just haven't shown up yet. Maybe he hasn't been able to write yet. Maybe he hasn't bothered.

January twenty-first

I'm sitting in my room, trying to smell John through the sheets, when I hear Mrs. Hudson, "Sherlock, I think John wrote you!" I stand up so quickly I start to feel dizzy, rushing down the hall to snatch the envelope from Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I tell her before moving back to my bedroom and opening the envelope with a razor.

_Sherlock,_

_I promised you that I would write as much as possible, so I'm sorry about how late this is. I guess I forgot how little time you get to yourself in the war. You're all I think about, though. I miss everything about you; all I've got is our wedding photo, which is beautiful. At least I have one of you smiling, did I ever tell you how much I love your smile?_

Yes, John, you did. It felt amazing.

_I know one of the guys in my camp, his name's Daniel; I think he's getting tired of hearing about you. He was surprised when I told him I'd settled down, more so when he realized it was with another bloke._

_I miss you. You're all that's ever on my mind, which is really pathetic, I should be worried about my patients or the bloody war I'm fighting in, but instead I'm worried about whether you're okay. I wish the war would just end. I love you, Sherlock. It's impossible to sleep without you here. How did I make it three years like this?_

_I hope you still take cases. It would be a waist if you stopped, I know you're tired of hearing it, but you're truly brilliant. Lestrade's lucky to have you to figure things out._

_I haven't slept in months; maybe that's why I'm going so insane. I love you. I hope I can send this out soon._

_John._

I press the page to my chest. Finally, a word from him. I can hear his voice in my head reading it to me as I scan it over and over. The ink was smeared slightly, probably because he put the letter in the envelope quickly, maybe he didn't want people to read it. He was never very public about us.

February sixteenth

"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft says, gesturing for me to sit down, I continue to stand. "You weren't home for Christmas."

I roll my eyes, "Brilliant observation."

"Just trying to make polite conversation."

It's worth it right now to be nice to him, "I'm never home for Christmas."

"I just thought with John gone you'd like some company on the holidays."

"Speaking of John, I've got a question." He doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow, "With your position in the government I'm sure you've got the power to bring soldiers home, right?"

He sighs, not a good sign. "Only if I've got a good enough reason."

"You do." The words spill out of my mouth faster than I can think of them. "You have plenty reason to bring him home. I'm going insane, Mycroft, and you know how much it would take for me to ask a favor from you, but I'm still here, practically begging you to give me my husband back."

After a long silence, he opens his mouth for a response "Do you remember when you pretended that you were dead?"

"Yes, of course I do. I don't see how this-"

"Almost every week John would ask me where you were, of course I knew, I'd been keeping tabs on you since the moment I'd realized you were alive, but either way, I told him that you were dead and it was time for him to move on. He never accepted your death. It was painfully heartbreaking."

The pieces aren't fitting together, "What the hell are you talking about?" I shout at him. I don't want to start a row. If he would just listen to me, I wouldn't need to.

"He waited three years when he thought that you were dead- I'm sure that you can wait a year and a half while he's saving lives."

"He can save lives here." I mutter to myself as I leave his office.

March sixth

It's not fair. It's not fair that I got to fall completely and wholeheartedly in love with someone who left me. I was never supposed to fall in love; I'd never loved anything before John. Not my brother, not mummy, nothing. But I love John, I love everything about John. His beautiful blue eyes, how he looks when he scolds me for my experiments, or saying something about a victim, and the sex. Of course I love the sex.

But it's never been about the sex. It's just a way that I can prove to him that I love him, because I can't tell him. I couldn't at first, at least. I'd stutter over my words and look at my feet. He said it didn't suit me. But I could show him. Even if that was all I could do. It was something.

March twentieth

Mrs. Hudson calls my name from the sitting room. I'm reluctant to come down at first, but then she tells me why she's here in the first place. "I think you got a letter from John!" I'm downstairs in less than ten seconds.

"Give it to me." I say to her, knowing I sound terse and demanding. But when I hold the envelope in my hands, something's wrong. He always handwrote his letters. Whether they be to an old friend or his sister. He even handwrote all two hundred of our wedding invitations. But the addresses on the paper are typed.

I take a look at it, and find another thing wrong with it- something a lot worse than typed addresses._ Sherlock Holmes._ If there was one thing John loved most about being married, it was my name, showing to everyone that I was his. My heart races as I carefully tear the paper.

_Sherlock Holmes,_

_We regret to inform you that your husband, John Watson, was killed on March nineteenth in the ambush of his base camp. We are very sorry for your loss and will be sending any of his belongings to you within a month._

Everything stops moving. My heart is no longer beating and my blood doesn't move anymore. The paper falls from my hands and hits the floor and I feel numb.

He promised me he would only be two years, that it would feel like nothing at all and that soon enough I would have him in my arms again. I can hear his voice, telling me that it would all be okay. Telling me to eat every day and keep away from cigarettes.

I wonder briefly if it's possible to live without John. If I can make it much longer with his head on my chest, his blonde hair falling between my fingers. I miss him so much, and I can't accept that these feelings will never be with me again.

I want to cry. I want to sob and throw things, but I can't move.

I am frozen.


End file.
